When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, <br />And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, <br />Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, <br />Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: <br />Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, <br />Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, <br />To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, <br />Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. <br />How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, <br />If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine <br />Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' <br />Proving his beauty by succession thine! <br />This were to be new made when thou art old, <br />And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-ii-when-forty-winters-shall-besiege-thy-b/
